


Boats and Birds

by spicyobsession



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Drama, Established Relationship, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Humor, Love, Mostly Dialogue, Romance, Sexual Content, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-28
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2017-11-10 21:27:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 15,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/470869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicyobsession/pseuds/spicyobsession
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unorganized collection of Garrus/Femshep scenes, ranging from ME2 to ME3. Explores various angles of their relationship. Subverts/inverts/averts some common fanon tropes while upholding others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In So Many Words

Shepard isn't big on talking so when they agree to catch up after their rushed reunion on Menae, Garrus isn't sure what day or time (or location or anything really) she means. All he has to go on is that small, cryptic smile of hers (the one that could mean a million different things), and the single eyebrow she raised when he showed her the bottle of wine that he had purchased from a very classy store (Garrus checked. It was definitely classy.) Two weeks pass, and he still hasn't opened it yet.

\-----

"Blue's a nice color on you," Vega drawls, gesturing to his colony markings.

"Yeah well, it looks like you're wearing some of your own," Garrus quips.

The marine's hand jumps to the fading ring around his eye. "I'm a rough-and-tumble kind of guy."

"I think you mean rough-and-stumble."

Vega almost-pouts, rolling his shoulders. "I let 'em win."

His brow-plates reach comical heights. "Riiight."

He sets his plate down on the table. "Aren't you gonna ask who I went a few rounds with?"

"Pretty sure it was Joker," the turian says nonchalantly and pops the cap open on his beer.

Vega nearly chokes on his bite of food ('huevos ranchos' or something of the like, the marine had told him) and coughs for several seconds before pointing a fork at him. "You're askin' for it."

"Can you even bring it?" he asks, leaning back against the chair.

"I'd give him a few more days," says a new voice, and the two soldiers snap to attention.

Shepard strolls into view, hands in her pockets, and stops behind Vega's seat. She's in her usual BDUs, hair pulled tight in a bun, but there's something different today that Garrus can't pinpoint. The unknown factor digs under his skin, sets off a buzzing in his ears that only increases in volume the longer he looks at her. Naturally, she doesn't notice this.

He decides to play it safe and casually crosses his arms. "So that's who gave you the black eye."

Vega refuses to budge. "Like I said. I wasn't going all-out at the time."

"Neither was I," Shepard replies, and Garrus stifles the snicker rising in his throat. "If you're still looking for a sparring partner, there's one right here."

"Who-this guy?"

"If I remember correctly, Garrus told me he used to be a top-ranking hand-to-hand specialist."

He can't help interjecting. "Not used to be. Still am."

The other guy's chest seems to puff twice its normal size as he turns to Shepard, brow furrowed. "And you're gonna let your own crew fight each other on your ship?"

She shrugs, authority pouring off of her in waves. "Nothing wrong with blowing off a little steam."

Garrus thanks the Spirits above that no one is paying attention to the turian whose hands have suddenly squeezed his beer bottle hard enough to make his talons scratch the glass with an audible screak. He pipes up, keeping his voice steady, "Think Jimmy here has the reach?"

In a movement too swift for anyone to catch, Shepard flicks her grey eyes at him and just as quickly glances back at Vega. "I'm willing to bet he doesn't have the flexibility." The corners of her mouth twitch.

"I'm plenty flexible," he loudly insists.

"I can think of a few people who've got you beat there," Garrus continues, dropping his voice a few octaves lower. He watches her jaw clench as the buzzing in his head reaches a fever pitch. In a dim corner of his mind, he registers it as adrenaline. Of course.

The expression on Vega's face is priceless: confused, but determined to follow the conversation. He holds his hands up in surrender. "Alright. What am I missing here?"

"It's an inside joke," Shepard says smoothly and looks at Garrus again as she adds, "Don't think too hard about it."

"Uh, okay then" is Vega's eloquent answer while the commander moves away from his chair and back towards the elevator. Garrus hasn't stopped staring, mandibles fluttering every few seconds.

"Later, Shepard," and damn if his subvocals don't roughen on the last syllable of her name.

She nods, her eyes liquid dark. "Later" and turns on her heel.

Vega waves his hand at him. "Uh, what just happened?"

He downs the rest of his beer and wipes his mouth, the buzzing having spread to rest of his body. "Just catching up."

Deep into the night-cycle, when everyone has gone to bed, Garrus knocks on the door to Shepard's cabin. When it slides open, Shepard is waiting for him right on the other side. She's still in her BDUs, hair pulled tight in a bun, but there's something different about her today. Tipping her head back to look at him, she smiles as wide as she can without showing her teeth.

"Hi, Garrus."

The huskiness of her voice makes him want to drop the bottle he's brought up. He grips it tighter. "Hey, Shepard."

Her eyes flick down. "Is that for us?"

"Only the good stuff," he says, hefting it up to view. "Mind, only one of us can drink it."

She takes the bottle and heads to her desk to set it down, a deliberate sway to her walk that has all of his plates feeling tight. "I don't think that'll be a problem. We've never had trouble sharing liquids before."

The door slides shut as Garrus fully steps inside, breathing in the charged air in the room. "Tempting biology again?

"You know me," Shepard continues in that maddeningly calm tone, "I'm a risk-taker."

He plays along, hoping to get this next idiom right. "Strange, I always pegged you as someone who keeps her cards close to her vest."

Her flash of teeth says otherwise as she moves into his personal space. "Closer."

Garrus leans in, his mandible lightly brushing the curve of her cheek. "How close?" he rumbles quietly.

Shepard bites her lip. "Close enough," she says and turns her head to kiss him.


	2. A Good man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scene: An alternative look inside the turian's head in the aftermath of a Paragon ending to his loyalty mission.

"Not yet" are his first words to Shepard as soon as she climbs inside the skycar after stopping him from taking the shot. She's smart enough not to say anything, turns her head toward the window, and keeps quiet the whole ride back to the Citadel docking bay. In fact, they don't speak on board the Normandy either, which sets everybody on edge at the mysterious wrench thrown into their legendary dynamic—thrown by who, however, nobody knows. Neither of them comment on the new situation too, with Shepard taking other crewmates for off-world missions while Garrus stays in the main battery, calibrating like their lives depend on it (which it does; it's just that no one knows it yet.)

The turian doesn't bristle at the change in roster and instead takes it one step further, keeping to himself at all hours of the day save the odd meal and bathroom break. He doesn't avoid Shepard, but neither does he actively seek her out. It's a lot to process, not taking that shot, and Garrus isn't about to walk around the ship broadcasting his internal dilemmas (which are usually deflected by a well-timed joke or self-deprecating comment, but he isn't in the mood to make clever quips either.)

Not that there are any clear conclusions once he's alone with his thoughts anyway. Truth be told, he isn't sure how to feel. Shepard was right when she said that Sidonis already looked like he had been paying for his betrayal, and she was right again when she alluded to their mission for Dr. Saleon years before as another reason for why he shouldn't let his emotions get the better of him. Shepard, always right, always knowing what's best for him. His talons have spread over the keyboard, tensed and poised.

It was more than about revenge or letting his brashness get in the way of his head. It was about proving something to himself, proving his father wrong, proving his track record wrong, proving the whole damn universe wrong: that Garrus Vakarian is more than the sum of his mistakes and career choices that keep backfiring on him, that whatever his hands touch doesn't always go up in smoke, that when push comes to shove, he won't choke on pulling the trigger because turians don't shy away from making those hard calls, and dammit he is a good turian despite the bullshit he spews to the rest of the crew (and her.)

Naturally, Garrus doesn't know how to explain any of this to Shepard so he keeps his mouth shut and calibrates the new Thanix Cannon instead. And although sitting on top of his identity crisis until the suicide mission seems like a perfectly good idea to him, the woman in charge doesn't give him the option of carrying his plan to completion and drags him out of the main battery for a day trip to Ilium after staying mum for two weeks.

They take a taxi cab to the financial district in Nos Astra. Since there was no mention of combat prior to leaving the Normandy, it's just the two of them sitting in the booth, facing each other. Outlines of pristine cityscape fly past their skycar in a blur of flashing lights. Garrus lets his eyes rove everywhere but in Shepard's direction, but when they finally do have to meet her gaze, she doesn't break the stare and holds it for a full minute where the only movement are the fingers drumming on her hip. He doesn't blink either, taking on her wide-eyed challenge, and waits for further orders.

His skin starts to crawl when she eventually speaks. "Are we okay?"

He blinks. It sounds like a question, but it isn't, really. "Yeah." A subtle shift of her mouth tells him that his monosyllabic answer isn't going to cut it, and Garrus sighs, steeling his shoulders. "You were right. Once I had him in my sights, I couldn't do it." He leaves the part out where she had been (literally) the only thing standing between Sidonis and the intended bullet, but he figures Shepard can read what he omits well enough by now.

Her eyebrows shoot up. "What stopped you?"

Alright, now he's beginning to bristle. "Very funny, Shepard," he says, crossing his arms.

She mimics his posture. "I'm serious."

"So am I."

"I backed off, I gave you time, and you still don't have an answer?"

"And what if it's none of your business?"

"Everything that goes on in my ship is my business." Her gaze hardens. "Including you."

Garrus stares at her. "I don't know what's happening at the moment. Mind throwing me a line here?"

"I shouldn't have to," she says sharply.

Mercifully, the taxi lands at their destination, beeping loudly to remind the pair that they've arrived and not a moment too soon. Scoffing softly, he moves to stand. "Just, forget it, Shepard—"

She grabs him, stills him, has him sink back down onto the leather seat, and for some reason he lets her. Her jaw works for several seconds before she slowly nods, as if to herself. "Sparing Sidonis wasn't a mistake."

"That isn't—"

"And not for the reasons you think." Her grip tightens. "I won't let you add this to your list of screw-ups because it isn't. You would've let him walk even if I hadn't been there. We both know it. You didn't mess up a damn thing, Garrus."

Sometimes—and those times have been increasing in frequency—he wonders how she does that, says exactly what needs to be said. All he can do is gently shake his arm, which she releases immediately, and nod back, clearing his throat. "Thanks."

"No problem," she replies matter-of-factly. Her eyes, dark grey and threatening to swallow him up in their intensity, follow his every movement as he climbs out of the skycar.

Rubbing his arm, Garrus promises himself that he'll have more to tell her when they get back to the ship.


	3. Tuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scene: Garrus finds Shepard trying to cope in Thessia's aftermath

Shortly after Thessia, the Normandy docks at the Citadel, and Shepard orders everyone to take a two-day leave before they embark on a deep-space mission for Horizon. The entire crew complies, partly because what they might encounter on the colony is a complete unknown and resupplying never hurts, but mostly because no one dares to go against the commander and the thunderous look in her eyes when she had issued said command. The ship empties within the hour. Even Liara is seen leaving her room, wiping her cheeks with one hand, a suitcase full of work-files in the other.

Garrus sneaks back in after the first day. He had been going stir-crazy on the Presidium after buying all of the necessary upgrades and personal amenities, enough to last him for at least a month. It was unbearable to watch people wandering through garden paths and shiny boardwalks (the ones undamaged from the coup anyway) with nary an urgent thought in their heads, spirits take them. Feeling as if he had been sitting on his hands for too long, he strolls onto the Normandy with his arms full of crates and heads for the main battery to unload.

"Shepard's orders were for the crew to remain on the Citadel for an additional 24 hours," EDI chimes in helpfully during the elevator ride down.

"Acknowledged and taken into consideration."

"Orders cannot be 'taken into consideration'—"

"Then let's keep this between us, turian to ship AI. What do you say?"

"…very well, Garrus. But I will not be held responsible for your insubordination," and he swears EDI sounds almost amused on the last word.

His footsteps echo eerily on the straight walk to his humble abode, and he idly wonders where Shepard had gone off to after they had exited the ship together. She hadn't been in the mood to volunteer any information, and he had been smart enough not to ask. As he drops the crates next to his weapons table, he thinks he hears a faint scuffle towards the forward battery, the rub of a boot against the floor, and quickly hops down those two steps to find her sitting down in the corner, knees drawn to her chest.

His mandibles flap for several seconds. "Uh," he says eloquently.

Shepard looks up at him, suddenly small and fragile in comparison to his towering frame, and he realizes then that she isn't wearing any armor. It's just her hoodie, light uniform pants, and boots. Her loosely tied hair falls in thick waves around her face, framing eyes that haven't seen sleep in days. She licks her lips before croaking, "I thought I told you to stay off the ship."

Garrus shrugs, sliding down against the wall to the floor beside her. "I got bored. Had to check on how the old girl's doing."

She tucks her hair behind her ear. "As you can see, the Normandy's fine."

"I'm not so sure." There's a red tinge to her nose. "After what went down on Thessia, I'm starting to see some wear and tear."

It's nothing she can't handle," she says, staring straight ahead.

"Still." He slowly brushes back a stray curl from her forehead and lets a single talon trace her cheek. "It wouldn't hurt to have someone take a look at her every once in a while. Just to be sure."

Before he can pull away, Shepard slightly leans into the touch, closing her eyes. Garrus doesn't ask why she's breaking her own rule, and doesn't ask why she's chosen to hide here. Her next words come out in a low shudder. "I guess that's what you're here for."

The vulnerability in her voice almost scares him, but he doesn't tell her that either. "You know the drill. I'm here if you need me," he says simply.

She looks at him full in the face. "I do."

Carefully, he turns her toward him, pulling Shepard to his chest so that the two are entwined in each other with his back against the wall. His spurs are pushed uncomfortably against the sides of his legs, her nose keeps rubbing against the piece of armor that covers his keel, but his long arms easily reach around her, and she curls closer, crossing her arms and folding her shoulders into his hold. Flyaway strands of her hair tickle his neck. He sizes the disparity between his two-toed feet and her relatively tiny five-toed version, marveling at the ways their bodies aren't meant to fit together (but do regardless, in a fashion he never would have expected.)

She sighs long and hard. "Earth, Palaven, Thessia—they're all burning. There's only so much fight in a person, only so much death you can take before…"

"A certain turian with no romantic skills to speak of tries to cheer you up," Garrus replies, nuzzling the top of her head.

She lets out a quiet, chuffing sound that's suspiciously similar to laughter. "You always have to turn everything into a joke, don't you?"

"It's the only thing I'm good at," he protests, "That, and sniping."

"We have to find you some new hobbies." Her fingers press themselves against where a human sternum would be on his person. "And what's that weird vibrating coming from your chest—are you purring?"

Garrus fights the sudden urge to tug at the armor around his cowl. "It's involuntary."

"It's cute," she says, ducking her head to hide her expression.

"It means I feel safe around you."

Shepard goes still.

"You can't save everyone, but take comfort in knowing that the people around you—your crew, your friends, your boyfriend—feel completely and utterly protected."

She pulls away to face him, her throat bobbing up and down. He doesn't know how to describe the twist in her mouth or the look in her eyes, but he puts it somewhere between touched, pained, and tender. "The little things, huh?"

As they touch foreheads, Garrus thinks that what they have isn't little, not at all.


	4. The Look of Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scene: Garrus considers Shepard's appearance. Warning-I use my custom Shep for this series, and this installment is very NOT Jane Shepard. At all. Don't read if custom Sheps don't interest you.

Garrus is curious with the look of her. Sure, he's been at C-Sec for several years now so he's seen his fair share of humans, asari, salarians, and what-have-you, but Commander Shepard is certainly the first human superior he's ever served under. He constantly compares her to the other humans working on board the ship (and to a lesser extent, every human he's met, ever), cataloguing the similarities and differences. For starters, she's definitely on the tall end of the spectrum for her species, or that's what he gathers from the way her male crewmembers puff themselves up to try to match her height whenever she's near them. Next to him, she would barely reach his chin, but he notices that she doesn't tilt her head at nearly such a pronounced angle as the rest of the women like Dr. Chakwas or Williams while speaking to him. In fact, she hardly does that at all, instead preferring to flick her eyes up towards his and hold his gaze while keeping her head level. It's a small habit that no one else on the Normandy would catch, but it's one of those things that earns Garrus' respect bit by tiny bit.

Another observation he mentally jots down is that she isn't pale. Like turians, humans have a wide range of skin tones, but the standard seems to be this tan-beige area where he'd put Engineer Adams and Navigator Pressly in. Outliers would be Dr. Chakwas or the pilot, who are almost as white as the clan markings some of his people wear. Once again, he places Commander Shepard on the opposite end of the color wheel because there is nothing subtle or ambiguous about her own skin color—that being a deep, rich brown. It makes her stand out from the crew, provides a dramatic, visual contrast when standing next to someone like Alenko, and eerily enough, it reminds him of other turians who share the same base hue. Spectre Nihlus or Councilor Sparatus come to mind, but Garrus realizes that they lack the warm, amber highlights found in their human counterpart. There doesn't appear to be any gradient or fade to her color either as it remains an even, uniform brown across her face, arms, and legs—or what he spots of them anyway. It's an unwavering consistency (and shade) that he finds himself approving of for some odd reason.

\-----

Garrus is familiar with the look of her. By now, he can easily pick Shepard out from a crowd—hers is a distinct silhouette that takes the average human proportions and stretches them over a lean, wiry frame, making them just a little more exaggerated. Her broad, square shoulders could provide adequate cover for small children if need be. Her stride clears rooms and empties corridors with the way those long limbs (arms and legs) swing back and forth. Like the rest of her body, her face falls on the flattering side of long and angular, every feature shaped to match that larger-than-life build. The impressive musculature on her person is an extension of this as well. When not pouring over paperwork or shooting bad guys, he often finds her exercising down in the shuttle bay, running circles around a punching bag or finishing a series of pushups. Her movements are tidy and economical, leaving no room for mistakes: much like her manner of speech. She never wastes words, and for all the half-smiles and diplomatic approaches to most situations, the woman keeps her true character wrapped up tighter than the bun at the nape of her neck.

And it's always up, he realizes, everywhere she goes. She keeps her hair neatly twisted and tucked away from view, save for a few stubborn wisps that escape from the sides. No one has seen her wear it down, and no one comments on this because her current style suits her persona perfectly: always put together, always composed, always in control. It's why she looks so calm in all the time he's known her and why he has no idea how to react when she unwinds the curls from their hold at last on the eve of the suicide mission. Once freed from its bonds, her hair falls past her shoulders in thick, coiling waves. Wild and voluminous, its color smoothly blends in with the inky, dark expanse above the skylight in her room, and Garrus reacquaints himself with Shepard all over again, who suddenly doesn't look like Shepard anymore but a night spirit who wouldn't appear out of place in one of his racier dreams. When he tentatively touches her head, the hair is as soft and light as those eyes that encourage him to join her on the bed and explore each other one breathless moment at a time.

\-----

Garrus is captivated with the look of her. There are details he picks out now, things he would never have considered noteworthy at their first meeting. Her thinly arched brows. That full, voluptuous mouth. Her wide, flaring nose that affords Shepard a much-coveted profile. A tiny mole on her left shoulder, the side he prefers to nuzzle now after finding it. Every day spent with her results in another new discovery, another reason to marvel at the sheer complexity of her design. He suspects he'll never tire of this constant exploration; after all, it simply provides additional incentive for him to catch her alone where she'll flash those brilliant teeth of hers and tip that sharp jut of a chin up for him to hold in place as he presses his forehead to hers. And then, she'll pull back to look at him with those steady grey eyes, heavy-lidded and liquid-dark in their intensity, that tell him everything he needs to know or could ever hope to learn. Nothing in the galaxy had prepared him for this, but when she quirks her lips at him—"Coming, Garrus?"—the turian jumps down that rabbit hole after her without a second thought.

If someone were to make him choose his favorite part about her though, he would point to Shepard's hands as answer enough. They are her only tell while the rest of her body is one big poker face, and reveal more about her personality than she would care to admit. Broad palms for the countless lives she has in her grasp. Calloused joints for the weapons she wields that bring necessary deaths. Long fingers for the lasting impact she leaves on her crewmates. They clapped his shoulder in a soldier's greeting three years before, touched his face in a moment of recognition six months ago, and presently slide against his waist possessively when no one's looking. Whatever she suppresses in front of her crew slips out through her hands, and Garrus is there to bear witness. On the day he takes her to the top of the Presidium and asks her to affirm what they are, his commander (and friend and partner) keeps her face politely warm as she nods her assent, but he sees past the longstanding facade and brings her hand to his mouth to kiss each brown, trembling fingertip, her mask finally breaking for him (and only him.)


	5. Breaktime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scene: Everyone celebrates the victory on Rannoch, the commander included.

"Holy shit, we actually pulled it off," James says sloppily and thumps Cortez on the back. "Come on, Esteban, this calls for another shot!"

Nearby, Tali raises her tumbler of tripled filtered turian brandy, a striped bendystraw sticking out of the rim. "I'll drink to that."

In the mess hall, the energy is high and festive as the crew gives in to their urge to celebrate in the wake of not one, but two, dead Reapers in such quick succession. Tensions were high right after the failed coup on the Citadel, exacerbated by the addition of the second human Spectre to the Normandy, but the battle on Rannoch has left everyone feeling a little—

"Drunk!" Chakwas hiccups. "I do believe I'm inebriated. Slightly. Maybe a lot."

Adams helps the doctor up from her splayed position on the floor while Westmoreland, Campbell, and the Ensign flail their limbs uncontrollably in a grotesque parody of dancing, of which Joker appears to be snapping pictures from his vantage point at the table. EDI and Traynor sit next to him, both giddy and relaxed though only one of them is faking. Yes, it's a good day to be alive

"The mess hall is…messy," comments a breezy voice, and Garrus starts at the sudden appearance of the Shadow Broker at his side. He chuckles his agreement, and the two friends lean against the railing, surveying the impromptu party.

"Looks like your pet Prothean isn't here. Couldn't get him to leave his hole down in cargo?"

"Very funny," Liara says without any bite and takes a long drag from her cigarette. "Festivities of this nature—namely drinking and gambling—were prohibited in 'the empire.'"

He tips the glass to his mouth in order to hide his smile. "Careful, your disillusionment's showing."

"So is the blind optimism you try so hard to deflect with witty repartee."

He nods at her, acknowledging the hit. "I think you mean my brash idealism, but I see your point."

The asari shrugs gracefully. "At least someone doesn't seem to mind."

Garrus looks at her quizzically, which she answers by tilting her head towards the statuesque figure walking out of the observation lounge. Shepard crosses her arms, watching the proceedings with a practiced eye until her gaze meets his, and abruptly, the room shrinks in size, crowding out the other occupants to leave just the two f them staring at each other—which she breaks after several long seconds.

"I'm going to go finish this in my office," Liara says carefully, flicks ash from her cigarette, and pats him on the arm. "Don't overdo it."

"I make no promises," he replies absent-mindedly and makes his way to the elevator, sidestepping Ken and Gabby, who he belatedly discovers becomes handsy after one too many whiskeys. He finds her standing in the corner of the enclosed box with a lop-sided smile on her face and the top buttons of her collar loose.

He raises a brow plate at her. "How many have you had?"

"You first," she says, raising her own brow.

Garrus moves closer, running the edges of his talons up her warm, bare warms. "Enough."

Her eyes drop to follow the movement, her lashes lacey flecks against her cheekbones. "Same." When they fly back up, there's a bright, hard expression in them. "We did it."

"Again," he reminds her and lets his voice fall several registers as Shepard slides her hands around his waist to pull him forward. "We took down a Reaper again."

Smirking, she clarifies, "I took down a Reaper," but the rest of her response gets replaced with a gasp when his mouth finds that vulnerable juncture between collarbone and throat.

"Not without some help," he can't resist adding. The door slides open on her cabin deck, and they push each other out of the elevator step by halting step. His armor lands on the floor in pieces until Shepard has him backed against the wall, shirtless. "Like your big damn gun."

Flushed and breathless, she cocks her head to one side. "Oh look, everything he says means something else."

He manages to undo her pants and rucks up her shirt to even the field. "Next you'll tell me I make clean headshots."

"You talk too much," she decides, wedging a leg between his thighs.

"Then shut me up," he growls and snaps her hairband in two to grab a fistful of her curls.

The cabin door opens. "I intend to."

He shoves her through the doorway. "Can't wait."

"You won't," Shepard says laughing, and yanks him inside where the door slides shut on Garrus, who celebrates their hard-won peace between the quarians and the geth with dark skin, darker lips, and darkest eyes.


	6. 2:00am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scene: Shepard and Garrus talk at 2am in the mess hall about the day's events on Horizon. ME2, pre-romance.

It's two in the morning, and Garrus is heading for the mess hall when he notices that the kitchen light is on, illuminating the only other person awake at this hour. Shaking the sleep-grog from his head, he watches Shepard pour herself a mug of something dark and pungent, loose waves of hair covering her face as her head tips forward to hit the upper cabinets with a soft thunk. He isn't surprised that she's here; after the day they've had on Horizon, sleep would be the last concern on her mind.

Not wanting to make himself a stranger, he steps into the light. "Shepard," he says, popping the fridge door open to find nothing but freeze-dried rations and a few cans of dextro-beer for the lone turian on board the ship. He sighs inwardly. A restock is in order soon.

The commander blinks slowly, as if still in a dream. "Garrus. What brings you here?"

He sets a can of beer down on a nearby table and takes a seat. "You know me, I gotta have my midnight snack."

"Missed it by a couple of hours," she points out, sliding into the chair across from him.

"I'll get it right the next time," he replies to keep the banter going, but then she doesn't respond, and just like that they both fall prey to their thoughts.

As she takes that initial sip, the name of the drink she's having comes to him: coffee. It had been her drink of choice on the first Normandy too, her hand never seen without that requisite, steaming mug. Its presence had let the other crewmembers know that it was alright to approach her at the time. At the sudden, nostalgic recall, he lets out a pleased hum because maybe some things never change, and then he frowns to himself because Kaidan used to share the occasional cup with her too so then again, some things do, and there's little point to trying to pick back up where they had left off.

"What's keeping you up?" she asks, breaking the silence.

He idly swirls his can around. "Same as what's got you here, I imagine."

Shepard nods slowly. "Right." The word comes out breathless and more than a little tired as she leans back, eyes looking (but not really looking) at him. "Today was…interesting."

"Not the exact word I would use," Garrus says, peering down his drink, "but it wasn't my belated, awkward reunion so I guess it's your choice to describe how it went."

Her chuckle sounds hollow. "That bad, huh?"

"It could've gone worse" is his diplomatic reply after a long sip.

She purses her lips in a thin line that could easily quirk up under better circumstances. "True. I just got caught off-guard, is all."

He coughs because he doesn't know what to tell her, and the sound echoes awkwardly into the ceiling. "He'll come around."

Raising an eyebrow, she brings the mug to her lips again. Garrus watches the ceiling light catch on her face, casting unnatural shadows that call attention to the faint, red scars that glow in fading lines across her cheeks, and suddenly he understands why Kaidan would back away from such a familiar and unfamiliar sight. Cerberus had replaced her old scars with new ones, and who knows when those would heal over, if ever. Regardless, he places full responsibility on the former staff lieutenant for that tense shuttle ride back to the Normandy with Miranda prattling on about Alliance-Cerberus relations and intelligence leaks to a deathly quiet Shepard who nodded her head at conversational checkpoints, clenching and unclenching her hands when she thought no one was looking.

In present time, he shakes his head. Their entire situation is too ethically complicated for words. "Or maybe he won't, but that still wouldn't change the fact that human colonies are getting abducted and that we owe the Collectors a collective kick in the ass. Kaidan's too smart not to connect the dots." A beat. "Although, it might be too late by the time he does, considering how he likes to sit on every decision twiddling his thumbs before making it first."

The commander takes a moment to absorb his words. Raising both eyebrows, she then gives this badly suppressed chuckle that follows a half-hearted smile. "I'd forgotten how much of a downer you've become."

He gives his own half-hearted shrug. "Omega does that to you." And he wasn't even sure if he was trying to comfort her or not, but Garrus figures probably not because a woman like her doesn't want false hope or hollow encouragement, has no need for them really; a woman like her deals only in bottom lines and blunt realities that everyone else enjoys avoiding. It's one of the many things he's always liked—admired about her, the way she softens her words for her crew and passing strangers but tolerates no sugar coating on any message or dialogue to her own person. It's a specific thing, a Shepard-specific kind of thing that he also coincidentally avoids dwelling on.

When he's done being lost in thought, she's already finished her coffee and set it aside, her fingers moving restlessly on the table. "He's right though. There's a good chance Cerberus is playing me, and I'm going into this whole thing dark." Her hand moves to her face, massaging the corners of her temple. "But I don't see any other options."

"Hey," Garrus says, instinctively leaning forward, letting his gut talk, "I don't trust Cerberus, not by a long shot. But I trust you, and that makes all the difference."

For a split second, his skin crawls with tension while Shepard stares and stares, looking oddly vulnerable as her hands stop moving—like she's never even considered this before and is only just now realizing how far out into the galaxy he would follow her with nary a glance back. Her throat bobs up and down, eyes flicking away when she murmurs, "Me too."


	7. Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scene: Shepard and Garrus say goodbye to each other before the commander turns herself in for the events of the Arrival DLC.

Garrus finds her in the conference room. "Everyone's left," he announces, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway.

At the other end of the table, Shepard nods slowly. "Just Joker then. Good."

"Aren't you going to restock first?"

"No, there's little point," she says immediately, "and I've spent enough time running. The sooner I turn myself in, the sooner this'll blow over."

He comes around the table, drumming his fingers on the surface. "It would be awfully inconvenient for the Reapers to show up while you're incarcerated."

"If that's your roundabout way of telling me that this is a bad idea, then you're too late. I've made up my mind."

He shrugs. "Just trying to lighten the mood." And more soberly, adds, "I'm a turian, remember? A bad one, granted, but I know better than to question your calls—even the crazy ones."

The look she gives him would have cowed a lesser man, but it all does for him is bring up the day the Normandy rescued her from an asteroid on a collision course with a mass relay, alone and battered because she hadn't taken anyone with her so that there had been three entire days where the crew had heard neither hide nor hair of her. When she had finally permitted visitors in the med bay, the only thing he could say to her was "glad you made it back" because to say more would have been useless and more importantly, given voice to the growing ache in his chest that he'd been mildly horrified to discover in the first place. Naturally, it hasn't gone away since then but merely intensified over the ensuing weeks.

With the silence having been stretched too long, Shepard briefly checks her omni-tool for the time and looks up at him. "I'm leaving the Citadel in half an hour. Do you have your things ready?"

"Yeah," he replies reluctantly, tugging at his collar.

She raises an eyebrow. "Or did you forget something?"

"M-hmm," Garrus manages.

That at least wrings a smile out of her. "Was I supposed to get that?"

"Definitely not," he says, ducking his head.

She chuckles and walks past him, gesturing for him to follow. "Come on. I'll walk you to the entrance."

Her steps are brisk and wide, but Garrus takes his sweet time behind her, dragging out the seconds as they pass the galaxy map and rows of swiveling chairs that now sit eerily still. He watches Shepard's back, dressed to the nines in her blue uniform, looking every inch the Alliance commander, always in control and one step ahead of everyone—an image that renders the reality of their situation even more unreal that it already is. And it's the absurdities in their circumstances that feed the nagging thought at the back of his mind that he can't even mentally articulate because all he has to go on are a tight chest, the propensity to stare at Shepard more than usual, and the two hours they had in her cabin before the Suicide-Mission-That-Turned-Out-Not-to-be-a-Suicide-Mission.

Has that changed anything between them? Is it supposed to? What happens now? And why even wonder about this in the middle of an impending Reaper invasion? The longer he sits on it, the stupider it sounds until Garrus all but convinces himself that the state of their friendship is too banal to be worthy a mention. Also, he considers as they near the airlock, if his awkward attempts at sussing out the particulars of their dynamic upset the rock-solid equilibrium of their three-year bond, he would never forgive himself. Ergo, more of the same suits him just fine.

She stops at the door and looks down at the sad little crates on the floor that are his belongings. Her mouth twitches when she glances back at him. "Don't have too much fun without me."

Except that it doesn't, not really. It hits him now that he isn't sure when he'll see her again, in civvies or Alliance blues, or the tiny smiles that never make regular appearances, or the flyaway strands of curly hair springing from her bun, or her broad, expressive hands and deep, husky voice that bring him no small measure of peace—

So he listens to his gut and steps into her personal space, laying a careful hand on her shoulder while quietly relishing the smooth rub of fabric made warm by her skin. "Watch yourself, Shepard."

Blinking slowly, her eyes travel from his hand to his face. "I'll have to," she says lightly, "there won't be anyone to watch my six."

Her body subtly shifts under his talons, and for a brief moment in time, the movement yanks him back to that night where she helped him map the dipping, curving contours of herself, guiding his hand with her own because everything's a tag-team effort with Shepard and Vakarian, this very second included. "Whatever the brass throws at you…" he shakes his head, too confused and unsure to continue.

She nods like she knows exactly what he means, and maybe she does because in the next instance her fingers curl around his wrist as she sighs and says, "Be careful out there too."

They stand like this for another minute, perhaps two, before breaking apart. Garrus dusts off imaginary lint from his armor and straightens his posture. "We both have our orders."

Shepard mimics his movements. "I expect you to follow them."

"Same here," he drawls.

She tilts her head to one side. "Who made you the Normandy's XO?"

"You did," he says without missing a beat.

"Funny how I don't remember that at all."

"Well you are getting older."

"Out," she says laughing. "I'll see you."


	8. Ibu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note: Obviously, I've been updating every two sundays instead of one, for which I apologize. Other Mass Effect ideas have been overtaking the Shakarian which, combined with the Extended Cut DLC and the resulting flood of feels that rendered me incapable of coherent thought let alone storywriting, have err, slowed down the rate of output XD Point is, I'll post two more installments after this one, and then I'll probably take a break to focus on other Mass Effect projects-to which you're free to keep up with too HINT HINT :D Anyway, please enjoy this long-awaited update.
> 
> Also, "ibu" is the Indonesian word for "mother."
> 
> Scene: Shepard talks about her mother.

"Shepard, what are those?"

"Hmm?" She sits up on the bed to look around.

He points to a small cluster of skinny sticks jutting out of the nightstand drawer. "What are they?"

"Ah," she says, suddenly looking thoughtful. "They're joss sticks."

"Come again?" he asks, tapping his translator.

She leans across to pull them out and shows it to Garrus, turning the bundle around and around: thin, yellow sticks no longer than a foot with a smaller circumference than Shepard's little finger, all tied together with twine. Garrus runs a talon over them, careful not to nick or slice the delicate material. "Joss sticks," she repeats, watching him explore, "they're like incense without the incense smell, used for religious purposes."

"Oh," he replies and raises his brow-plates in surprise. In all his four years of knowing her, he had never seen nor heard the commander speak of anything remotely religious.

"It's not something I talk about in public," she answers for him.

"Evidently." The ends are dipped in bright, startling red. He leans in and inhales deeply; as expected, they give off little scent. It occurs to him then that he had never seen them in her room before despite having taken up semi-permanent residence here.

Shepard bites her lip. "I'm not a religious person," she says, putting the bundle back in the drawer.

Garrus turns on his side to face her, sensing the tonal shift in the cabin. She sees him move and lets out a tiny sigh. "My mother was though."

Mandibles flaring, he makes a sound both curious and encouraging. She lays her hands in her lap and haltingly continues. "I grew up in Jakarta, one of the largest metropolises on Earth. Definitely not as big as Cipritine, but crowded enough. When I was small, my mother would take me to the Buddhist temple during midday prayer—a break from all the noise and traffic."

She swallows, catching her breath as he draws the covers around them. "What was that like?" Garrus ventures slowly. He's read her service history ages ago, knows that she grew up on Earth as an orphan, but that's only what official records say, and here Shepard is telling him about the mother he had assumed she never had. The question should feel intrusive, except that she relaxes her shoulders and lets him in.

"Which part?"

Now Garrus feels nervous because he could ask anything, and she would give him the truth without hesitation so instead he shrugs to hide the tension in his shoulders. "Whatever you're comfortable telling me."

Nodding, she settles into the bed, leans against the headboard, and begins to talk. "I didn't have any brothers or sisters—just my mother and I, scraping together for our next meal from day to day. She worked odd jobs when she could, and when there weren't any to find, we would beg on the streets. That usually got us dinner to share, which was always rice and a limp piece of pickled vegetable. Lucky days would include a hard-boiled egg. I never asked her how she got them." Her voice is mild and even as she carefully enunciates every word, giving his translator time to briefly describe her native food.

"Once a week, one of the local temples near the neighborhood we ah, lived in would serve free meals to whoever showed up at their doorstep. The crowds were terrible, and the humidity made the lines worse, but the food was worth the wait. It was spare and simple, a bowl of noodle soup or a couple of buns, but they were hot and filled our stomachs for the rest of the afternoon. Sometimes the monks would let us rest inside the main atrium for a bit so all the dust and heat and traffic were muffled by the walls and their chants. I'd fall asleep listening to prayers."

Her slow and measured tones certainly draw the turian in, but raise a question as to how long she has spent constructing her childhood into a tightly formed narrative with nary a word out of place, a tale she can recite without skipping beats or forgetting details, as if this had all happened so long ago to someone else. It's the kind of story that doesn't get shown in the news vids or printed in official record logs. It's the kind of story he never thought he'd hear from Shepard. Garrus fluffs the pillow behind his neck and cowl, giving her time to re-gather herself.

"My mother would listen to them though: the songs, the readings, the lessons. She converted not too long after we started going there regularly, and soon, there was another thing we needed to get besides food." She points to the drawer. "Joss sticks. Sure, the makeshift 'house' we repaired every night still had a million leaks, and the batik on our backs were threadbare to the point of transparency, but at least she had incense to burn at midday prayer. I'd watch her light a single stick to place at that gigantic altar before going through the mantras with the other monks. Those sessions would last up to an hour, chanting line after line that requested good health and fortune for this or that aspect of our lives, but it made her happy in a way not even a fresh mango could manage."

Shepard shrugs carelessly. "I did everything with her."

"She was all you had," Garrus says at last, feeling safe enough to reply.

"It was enough," she replies, inclining her head to agree, "until we got separated during an ethnic/religious riot when I was nine." She lets that hang in the air, the brief pause deftly filling in the conclusion, before closing her eyes. "And then it wasn't."

His mandibles flicker uncertainly at the abrupt ending, but he carefully winds his hand through one of hers anyway. "Thanks for telling me," he murmurs.

Eyes still closed, Shepard leans her head on his shoulder. "Thanks for listening."


	9. Hush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scene: Garrus helps Shepard unwind after another search-and-rescue mission. ME3. Very smutty. I also hand-waved the "DO NOT INGEST" rule because reasons.

When Garrus finally comes up to her cabin, he watches Shepard take off her helmet, careful not to disturb her already matted, messy hair and set it down on the desk next to her empty coffee mug. The rest of the armor is scuffed and blood-stained, much like her person, from their latest rescue mission to Benning. It was a hot, crowded world with collapsible apartments stacked right on top of each other, its inhabitants streaming out the doors to run down the streets as they screamed for help from Cerberus troops.

After escorting as many civilians as they could to the evac shuttles, his commander had knelt down on the ground in the middle of a courtyard to pick up a set of dogtags and slowly closed her fingers around them before gesturing for her squad to head back to their own shuttle. On the ride back, she calmly told him about Ambassador Osoba's request to discover what happened to his son, and the answer she must give to him once they return to the Citadel. The dogtags did not leave her hand that entire time, and it's why he's here now.

Shepard isn't surprised to see him standing at her doorway. "Hey you," she says, her voice low and cracked, and Garrus steps forward like he always does: confident, sure, and at least three moves ahead.

The gauntlets are the first to go, revealing long fingers that flex and curl as he drops the gloves on the table in front of the couch. Before she can reach for her boots, he stops her. At her raised eyebrows, he simply says, "I'll do it" and backs her to the foot of the bed where she falls with a soft whump. Garrus kneels down, his own armor creaking as he does, and slides off each boot without causing a shower of grit and sand to settle on the floor. He pulls her to her bare feet; without the extra height her shoes provides, Shepard places two inches below his eye level, a difference he will remedy soon enough.

The rest of the pieces follow in short order: shoulder pads, chestplate, leg guards—each segment he deliberately places in a neat, growing pile on the coffee table because Garrus knows it would drive Shepard up the wall to see her armor scattered haphazardly on the ground. It's the same way he takes apart his rifle, craving those slow, predictable steps because routine is hard to come by in their line of work—even harder is maintaining that illusion of control, but that's never stopped anyone from trying before. Besides, the smile peeking behind the corners of her mouth is reason enough.

"It's very neat," she observes.

His mandibles flutter nervously. "Isn't that usually how you do it?"

Her eyes flick back to him with a mildly surprised look on her face. "Yeah. I mean—yes. It's exactly how I arrange my armor." The eyes soften, to which his stomach does a backflip.

Shepard runs her hands up his chest and around his neck to pull him down for a short burst of a kiss that segues into slow, deliberate nuzzling along his mandible. It's a signature move that he enjoys, but there's the feeling of too many fingers on his skin, something he hasn't gotten used to yet, and he wonders what the reception is like on the other end—does she bemoan the lack of two more digits to touch her with? What would he even do with an extra set of talons? She abruptly jerks back to give him a hard stare.

"You're thinking too much."

Garrus cups her face. "So are you."

"Since when can you read me that well?" she asks, eyebrows rising again.

He swallows. "Does that scare you?"

Shepard hesitates, and her normally still, serene face looks lovely doing it. He puts a finger to her lips before she can blurt something out. "I'm not the only one then."

The underarmor presses tight against her body, highlighting curves and rises, angles and foundations, the wiry strength of her figure and the tightly controlled set of her posture. There are cracks in that too. Bringing her close, he carefully finds the zipper at the back of her neck and drags it down, during which she rests her head on his shoulder, her hands rubbing circles on his waist. The material splits in two once the zipper line ends, exposing a vertical swath of dark skin that he traces with the tip of his talon, right down to the small of her back, her flesh pebbling instantly to his touch.

She shudders, her head still buried in his shoulder. Without warning, Garrus pries open her underarmor, peeling it from her back, her arms, and her chest like the hard-cracked shell she's made it to be, and just as quickly she's naked from the waist up with curls springing every which way from the bun that's still in place. Shepard wordlessly undresses him as well, teasing fingers into grooves and the hard-to-reach spaces between his plates, a move that has him gasping at the speed of which his pubic plates have loosened. _His_ armor pieces land on the floor haphazardly.

She doesn't freeze anymore when he moves a tentative hand to her hair, but he still asks every time. Shepard takes the bun down herself though and lets Garrus spread her curls apart, the formerly-trapped scent of her now rushing up his nose. Eyes closed, she hums appreciatively as he fluffs her thick, coiled locks, never pulling or threading. Her hair also isn't something he's gotten used to yet; mostly because he hasn't stopped marveling at the texture and give and the way it makes her look so…so…

"Is there something in my hair?"

"What?—no," he says hastily, "It's just." He can't resist tugging a lock until it straightens. "You look different. Without the bun."

She smiles. "It's impossible to tame and gets in my way."

"Reminds me of someone I know," he adds with a flicker of his mandible.

"That person sounds like a lot of trouble."

Garrus nudges Shepard back on the bed, easing her down to loom over that lean, dark frame whose eyes hold him there. He returns the look in kind. "The ones worth staying with usually are."

Her shudder speaks volumes, and that's when he plants his elbows on either side of her and starts a trail of kisses from her neck, tasting smoke and sweat and earth. The smells mingle with the scent of her hair, shutting off any higher thought processes, and it's all downhill after that. He murmurs nonsensical phrases into the dip of her collarbone. Licks a long, clean line to her breast while a hand massages the other. Takes a dusky nipple in his mouth and sucks it wetly. Her back makes a perfect arch as he nips at the underside of her breast.

"You—"

He cuts her off with another kiss; her hands jump to his fringe, his mandibles, stroking those sensitive edges that nearly buckle his elbows. Their tongues go deep, massage deep, taste deep—they pull away, breathless, and Garrus nods tightly, continuing his inevitable journey south. "Yeah," he says in pointless agreement against her firm abdomen and slides to his knees in reverence with her legs dangling over the bed. "You," he sighs into her thigh, pulling down the rest of her underarmor to her ankles. Her newly exposed skin gleams back at him, and his chest's fit to burst with wanting.

"I'm not sure that—"

"I am," Garrus says easily, rubbing soothing patterns on her hips. He's always been sure about her. Has to be; otherwise there'd be no one in this war he could trust, and that's no way to fight—or live.

There's subdued laughter floating above him. "And how did you know what I was going to say?"

He rests his face against a silky thigh. "I didn't."

A beat. "So what if I had said something else?" Her voice turns soft and high-pitched. "What if I had told you to get out? What if I had told you to never come back?"

"You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I?"

"Not a chance," he growls and hooks his talons over the bands of her standard-issue underwear.

Finally, finally, she sits up to look down at him, her hair in disarray and full mouth quivering. "And why not?"

He pulls off that flimsy piece of fabric, bunching it in his fist before flinging it across the room. Shepard yanks him to her at the same time he says, "Because I'm hard to get rid of." Still on his knees, her legs locked around him, his hands spread wide and tense on her lower back as she rocks them back and forth. "Because I need you." She freezes at that one, control stretched to breaking point, but Garrus isn't finished yet.

"Because I'm yours," and that makes her keen wordlessly.

"Prove it."

Garrus drags his claws across her inner thigh, plants open-mouthed kisses on the other side, inhales to savor the heavy scent of her cunt, so thick he can almost feel it on his tongue, and slowly parts those slick folds open; the sight is enough for him to groan out loud, a dual-toned thing of beauty that cuts off once he presses the flat of his tongue against her lips and licks. Her gasp is sharp and immediate, cutting through the air as he holds her steady, and the sound has him shamelessly thrusting against the bed for Shepard's a quiet woman in every scenario including this one, and to see her trembling, so undone, her famous restraint slipping away—

"Oh," she breathes. _"Oh."_

He mumbles something incoherent, agreeing with her wholeheartedly, and carefully swirls his tongue around her swollen nub that has Shepard hissing through her teeth and digging her heels into his back. She smells—and tastes—indecently good, which Garrus lets her know by humming into her inner folds; a predatory eye watches her hands grab fistfuls of the covers, knuckles bone-white. He closes his eyes briefly: sweat beading on her skin, cunt radiating heat, blood rushing to his cock—fuck, but he's in deep.

Time moves faster after that. She shakes, wet and aching, moves her hips against his darting, insistent tongue that find her every weak spot, and Garrus emits another low moan when her hands find his, lacing their fingers in twin vicegrips as his mouth grinds against her cunt in a rhythm long established in the battlefield; only here, it isn't their lives that hang in the balance so as much as _her_ and _him_ and _this_ and the darkness building behind her eyes and how there's no one to keep it at bay but him because if he doesn't it'll eat her from the inside, and _he can't lose her again._ He just can't.

Let me do this for you, he wants to tell her. Let me help you forget, if only for a little while. Garrus tilts his head to change the angle, and it's the right note to hit because just like that, her body gives a head-to-toe shiver as a last-second warning before she's jerking into his mouth, thighs locked around his head, delicate toes curling on his shoulder blades, and he's there to take it like he always has, his thin, desperate pants following after Shepard when she finally chokes out his name in a full-throated cry.

She shivers violently in the comedown, her hips still twitching in the pleasurable aftershocks as he kisses his way back up to her waiting mouth, tasting her, tasting _her_ , his own unsteady hands stroking everywhere he can reach: the edge of her shoulder, her sweat-dampened neck, the exquisite curve of her ass. Breasts pressed to keel, they pull away to touch foreheads, their breaths warm on each other's faces.

"You're beautiful," Garrus says.

Shepard's mouth twists, jaw clenched. "You're mine."


	10. Pause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scene: Garrus and Shepard have a moment to themselves during a Cerberus mission when he comes to a gentle realization. ME3.

It's a hot afternoon. The team takes a breather in between enemy waves, which nobody finds to be a particularly sound idea, but dropping into the middle of a firefight while an Atlas mech lumbered in the distance didn't seem like a smart venture either. After looting the recently fallen bodies for ammo, they flit into deserted buildings in search of stray medi-gel and strategic hiding places. Kaidan is several rooms over inspecting an implant on a Phantom's corpse; Garrus vaults over a low-hanging window to join the commander in what appears to be a living room if the overturned chairs and table are any indication.

Her face is covered in grime and Cerberus blood, which he helpfully observes aloud.

Shepard doesn't miss a beat. "You have a little something…" She makes a broad motion with her hand in his general direction.

"You just gestured to all of me."

"Did I?" she answers, eyes crinkling.

"I'm not the one wearing Nemesis entrails after rushing her from behind with dual omni-blades."

She shrugs. "Nah, you were just huddled in some ass-end corner of a rooftop scraping your knees on the floor just to squeeze in a good shot while the rest of us were down here."

"Several of which you stole, by the way."

Her mouth twitches. "Too slow, Vakarian."

"But fast enough to save your asses the rest of the time," he points out, following her into the kitchen and kicking aside the broken glass strewn on the tiled floor. She roots through the cabinets, pulls out drawers, and opens the fridge door as Garrus looks around, scoping exits and chokepoints. He hears a muttered "Aha!" and turns to catch a water bottle thrown at him in mid-air. Hers is half-empty by the time he twists his open. Shepard wipes her mouth and spits. He tips his head and drinks, closing his eyes in reverence for the liquid sliding down his throat.

Once the turian drains the bottle's contents, he tosses it aside and notices Shepard watching him: not in scrutiny or assessment, but something harder to describe—like he's a self-contained tableau to rest her eyes on, all angled lines layered on sleek form and burning shades hidden in a cooler palette. There've been a few times when he's caught her before, but she always looked away right afterwards, and he's never asked why. This time, though, she doesn't break the stare so he runs his hands along his cowl, stretching his neck for good measure.

"See anything you like?"

That earns a quick smile. "Just…reminding myself."

"Of?"

"What I'm fighting for." She resumes her scavenger hunt. "It's like Mordin said: better to have a specific face in mind than a list of numbers and figures."

The room grows warmer still. Beads of sweat slide down her cheeks and drip off her chin. Hair plasters to her forehead, her bun hanging on for dear life at the nape of her neck. If Garrus had the time, he would count each lash on her eyelids, the calluses on her hands, the scars on her back: specific numbers important to no one but him, but he doesn't know how to tell her that so he coughs instead and quips, "I have to admit, you do have a mind for ruthless calculus."

"Says the turian who insisted on three more rounds of bottle-shooting after I had already won."

"It was windy up there," he patiently maintains.

Her laugh is a rare sound. "Let me know if you want a rematch."

Garrus does, naturally; only, he isn't sure if they'd find another opportunity to cut loose again and figures that joking about it in an active war zone is the closest they'll get to repeating those hours on the top of the Presidium where there was nobody but them. Better to continue the illusion though. "Anytime, anywhere."

"Tuchanka," Shepard throws out.

"As long as the thresher maws and klixen don't interrupt us."

"The Collector Base."

"That we blew to hell? Sure."

"Liara's office."

"Now you're just talking crazy."

"You said anywhere."

"Within reason," Garrus adds, not mentioning all of the other places he would follow her to without question. Shepard shakes her head, crow's feet on the corner of her eyes, and he hopes that they're there from him making her smile too much because he likes the idea of making her so happy that her mask can't hold it, laugh lines and genuine emotion cracking its smooth surface alongside his own defenses that have long since crumbled.

The bottom of his stomach drops at the path his thoughts have taken him, and he considers having a second or two of panic before he remembers how far gone he is anyway—and how scared he isn't at such a crossroad when he should be. His organs realign with little trouble, and when Garrus resurfaces, he sees the unspoken question on her lips as to where he went.

Out of the blue, Kaidan's at the doorway. "Enemy shuttle incoming."

The expression on Shepard's face wipes itself clean. "Got it. I don't want you anywhere near that shuttle's landing space. Let's move, people."

The second human Spectre nods, darting away. Garrus pops in a new heat sink as his commander rounds the counter, her hand hovering over the pistol at her hip. He's about to suggest where they should place themselves when she moves too fast for him to catch, tilting her head up and tugging his neck down in a brief press of soft lips to smooth plates. Grunting in surprise, he leans into the kiss because his hands are too full to hold her and so is his chest, but just like that she's withdrawn into her space, shoulders squared.

"Come on," Shepard says, her voice betraying disquiet and other things she keeps to herself.

His mandibles clap tight against his face as she heads back outside. "Right behind you," Garrus replies, determined to tell her later when the timing won't matter anymore.


	11. Abyss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hey everyone! Just letting you all know that I'm still alive, but working feverishly on my Mass Effect Big Bang fic (look it up, it has its own Tumblr and LJ! Great project!) After playing Leviathan and watching the LI content in this magical DLC, I knew I haaad to write a little something for my favorite OTP-if only to to take a break haha
> 
> It's only half the length of the previous chapters (50o words!), but please enjoy anyway : ) And as always, reviews are much appreciated!

When they bring her back onto the _Normandy_ , no one asks what happened, not with the way she shivered and hobbled towards the med bay, her arms slung over her squad mates’ shoulders. Dr. Chakwas doesn’t bother with inquiries either and has Shepard talk only when required, which is just as well because the commander volunteers nothing in return. She takes a single meal in private and retires early to her cabin with Garrus in tow. 

It’s only hours later, and far past everyone’s curfew, that she finally speaks.

“I could hear the glass creaking from the pressure.”

Garrus stops scrolling through his messages and closes his omni-tool. Several feet away, Shepard is lying on the bed in civvies, her thick hair fanned out over disturbed sheets. “After the submersion, I kept sinking for the longest time, and I don’t know how long it took until my feet hit rock bottom—literally.”

She stretches her hands up, fingers spread toward the ceiling window. “People like to tell you about the vastness of space, about the countless stars and planets, how you can get lost up there.” Her sharp exhale sounds like an aborted laugh. “That’s only because they don’t bother to look down.”

He can’t hold in his curiosity anymore. “What did you see?” 

The bed lets out a _whump_ as her arms fall back on the mattress. “Darkness so heavy you can touch it. Shadows of things we don’t have names for. My whole world, narrowed to a pinprick of light my suit gave off. Fragments of—“ And here she has to stop. “—of dreams, or nightmares.”

The awe in her voice (or is it barely contained terror) brings his next question to a hush. “And…Leviathan?” 

The room goes still for one long, agonizing moment. “I—I can’t,” Shepard says unsteadily, shaking her head. “Not yet. Just know that it was the coldest I’d ever felt, when talking to it.”

In two strides, Garrus is at the foot of the bed, but he tries hard to make the walkover appear casual. His commander’s eyes are closed, which he’s grateful for because he doesn’t know what he might find in those depths. “Sounds like I was right about your brand of crazy being off the charts, but I wouldn’t recommend a return trip.”

Her smile relieves him somewhat. “Duly noted.”

“Turians aren’t overly fond of water. I can see why now.”

Glancing at him, Shepard softly snickers and reaches for his hand, which he freely gives. Her thumb rubs circles on his palm while she continues. “If only you’d have been there, with true alien life staring you in the face. The silence, dwarfing what you thought was so big.”

He instinctively tightens the grip on her fingers. 

“What Thane said about the ocean and the deep, all those months ago…I get it now. It’s beautiful. It almost took my breath away.”

Garrus says nothing, but kisses her instead to keep her from slipping back into the water.


	12. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scene: Garrus has a conversation with a guard while waiting for Shepard to show up for their Citadel date. ME3. Very fluffy.

Garrus and the guard meet each other’s eyes every minute or so, and it’s probably because he keeps shifting his weight from one foot to the other in a very obvious, very audible way. Childhood habit, he wants to tell him, or a reflexive tic developed from months of harboring thoughts about his superior officer, who he’s actually waiting for at the moment. The other turian would simply stare at him as if he’d gone crazy though—on both counts. Releasing a sigh, he stops himself from fiddling with his omni-tool again. Choosing the spot right outside the elevators on the docking bay was a terrible idea.

He could check if he’d brought everything, but Garrus nips that action in the bud too. The crates containing his sniper rifle, empty bottles, and food (both levo and dextro) have been patiently sitting inside their compartments since this morning. The fee for the rental car behind him has already been paid: one full Citadel cycle, insurance and warranty included. His armor’s been cleaned, twice. He had even made sure (multiple times) that today is the day she’d mentioned in her reply to his original email. At this point, he’s just ready to go, ready to get this over with, ready to screw it up somehow and throw himself out the nearest airlock—

His mandibles flicker restlessly as he tries his best to shake off the nerves bunched in his shoulders. Shifting his weight once again, Garrus opens the playlist on his visor.

“You need to calm down.”

He checks the surrounding area before glancing over to the guard posted at the elevator. “Are you talking to me?”

“I don’t see anyone else jumping around like there’s a bug in his cowl.”

“Right,” Garrus says, ducking his head. “I’ll uh, work on that.”

The guard points to the car with his gun. “What’s the occasion?”

He straightens his posture. “The private kind.”

“Hey, I’m just wondering what’s gotten you so wound up,” the turian replies with a shrug. “You’ve been standing here for the past fifteen minutes.”

This time his feet stay still, but his hands have decided to fidget. His answer comes out reluctantly. “I’m waiting for someone.”

“Are they going to show up?”

“Of course,” Garrus says a little too loudly, “you don’t keep a guy like me waiting.”

The guard’s mandibles flare. “It _is_ a date then.”

He turns his head away, not bothering to respond.

“Don’t worry about it, we’ve all been there before. And for what it’s worth, I think your date will turn out fine.”

At that, Garrus _has_ to look back and stare at him for several seconds. “Why even dispense the appreciated, but unsolicited, advice?”

“Because you’re nervous, I’m bored, and it beats having to think about what’s going on in the rest of the galaxy.” 

His stomach drops. “Yeah. That’s kind of the point with this meetup too.”

“And maybe something more?”

Garrus swears that the guard leaned in when he asked that and gives up any pretense of maintaining a poker face. “Is it that obvious?”

“I did tell you to calm down.” 

“You don’t see me jumping around anymore.”

“True, but that doesn’t mean you’re not jittery inside.”

Too close. “Look, if you have any words of wisdom for me, now would be the time before I cut this conversation short.”

“Whatever you’re planning for this date, they’ll like it. Whatever you’re going to ask them, they’ll say yes. And,” he adds, raising his brow plates suggestively, “it looks like you won’t have to listen to me prattle on.”

When Garrus turns back around, there’s Shepard walking towards him: not in armor, not in dress blues, but in a loose jacket with a hood over her head, and fitted pants that run a clean line from her trim boots to her trimmer waist. A jolt of surprise and something warmer runs through him when he spots the spray of curls surrounding her face; free from her characteristic bun, they soften her jaw and remind him of the last time he saw her hair down like that, in her cabin, just a few nights ago as they talked about trivial, everyday things, and he realizes that she could have been shifting her feet from side to side earlier today too. 

As she pulls the hood off to let those dark curls tumble over her shoulders, smiling her smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes, his nerves melt away, and the part of his brain that wouldn’t stop stressing _stops._ He steps to meet her halfway.

“Almost didn’t recognize you.”

Shepard chuckles, fingering the ends of her hair. “I didn’t feel like drawing too much attention today.”

Garrus carefully tips his head a few inches lower. “Well you definitely drew mine,” he says, his subvocals roughening on the last word. 

Her smile widens to show even, white teeth and the dimples on both of her cheeks. No one ever gets to see them.

“I’m glad you came,” he says then without a single tremor in his voice. 

“Me too.”

He wonders how someone can make him so sure and unsure of himself at the same time. When Garrus looks past her to catch the guard’s eye, the other turian nods as if to say, _I told you._ He nods back. 

Shepard gestures to the equipment behind him. “What did you have in mind?”


	13. Flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The series is due for another custom-heavy chapter, meaning: this installment further delves into my Custom Shepard. Don't read if that's not your cuppa.
> 
> Scene: ME2, Pre-romance. Garrus and Shepard take a break in the Dark Star Lounge where they run into an old acquaintance of Shepard's.

When Garrus returns with a levo and detro drink in each hand, weaving in and out of the Dark Star crowd, there's already someone else on the couch next to Shepard. He shakes his head at the inability to leave for five minutes without an eager stranger stopping by to shake the resurrected Savior of the Citadel's hand. Upon closer inspection, however, the other woman's arm is draped over the back of Shepard's seat instead while her free hand toys with her own glass, sliding a single finger around its rim as his commander casually leans back.

Coming into view, Garrus clears his throat. "Did I miss something?" he asks, setting the drinks down.

The other woman gives him an onceover, the corners of her mouth curling up. "Did _I_?" In a quick study, he files away details like the high slant of her eyes and the sweep of her rust-red hair for later consideration.

"You'll have to excuse her," Shepard chuckles, "Garrus, meet Rae. Rae, Garrus."

"Pleasure," Rae chirps, tipping her glass at him.

He sits in the chair adjacent to them. "Same. Shepard's told me _everything_ about you."

"And he wonders why I don't take him anywhere," she says dryly. "Rae's an old friend. We go back."

"Alliance," Rae clarifies and scoots closer, "Damn near a decade, in fact."

"I sound so old when you put it that way."

"Says the woman who was supposedly dead for two years and came back to life." She rolls her eyes at Garrus. "She always was the worst at playing herself down."

He takes a sip of his ale. "It's one of her less annoying habits."

Shepard raises her eyebrows. "Exactly whose side are you on?"

"The one who'll save me creds by buying the next round."

"Clever bastard, isn't he?" Rae notes, her faint smile growing wider.

She pauses to stir her drink before saying indulgently, "He has his moments." Shortly afterward, her omni-tool goes off with a soft ping. Shepard pulls up a page, skims it briefly, and rises from the couch. "Just something small to take care of, I'll be back. And try to behave," she adds with a note of exasperation.

Shepard smoothly blends into the crowd despite towering over most of the humans (and not a few aliens) in the lounge. "The people you run into," Rae observes and lets out a sigh. "It's not such a big galaxy after all."

Garrus makes an agreeable noise, still watching where Shepard's wandered off. "Can't argue with you there."

His attention's pulled back to the other woman as she moves nearer to him, her perfectly coiffed head at a playful tilt. "I'm not interrupting anything here, am I? Like a date?"

His brow plates shoot up as high as they can in a poor imitation of Shepard's earlier expression. "Definitely not."

Rae shoots him an indefinable look, all bright eyes and curved lips. "Really now," she drawls, "Then you wouldn't mind if I stole your commander away for a night?"

He remembers too late to keep his mandibles under control by the way they twitch against his face, and she has a dainty laugh at his expense. "I'm joking. Besides, I'm sure she wouldn't have any time to spare for little ol' me." She gives a careless shrug. "That was what eventually ended things too."

A quirk of her thin eyebrow makes him pause: Oh. _Oh._

"Ah," Garrus replies eloquently, studying his glass.

Rae laughs again, no malice behind the sound. "It wasn't anything serious. Well—scratch that, it could have gotten serious, but the both of us…we weren't ready at the time. Shepard, especially. Broke hearts left and right, that one."

Imagining Shepard as a younger, brasher woman is difficult with today's stoic soldier for galactic peace living right above his quarters, but as characters such as Miranda and Jack slowly open up to the commander, expressing doubts about the Illusive Man or painful truths about their upbringing, Garrus can easily translate her knack for swaying people into an area more…visceral. He takes another long drink, unsure of how to process the new information that Shepard had a life before all of this craziness started.

"She's a slippery one to catch," Rae continues, "and even harder to read. Luckily, some of her habits still haven't changed, and let me tell you—"She leans close to Garrus, the pale moon of her face framing dark brown eyes, "—if you aren't interested, that would be such a shame."

He stares back. His mandibles stay flat. "I'll uh, keep that in mind."

The lounge lights cast unexpected shadows on her face as Rae resumes her original position in her seat. "So you are?"

Before Garrus can respond, she waves her hand. "Never mind, you don't have to answer that. Maybe you don't know yet." She finishes the rest of her drink and stands up. "Tell her I had to run, but it was nice to see her again. I'd love to stay in touch, but—"Her slim, elegant shoulders go up. "That's not how real life works."

There's no time to answer her because he spots Shepard walking towards him as Rae slips past in the opposite direction, throwing one last cheeky grin at him. Even out of her armor, the commander wears her civvies like the custom-made Kestrel set in her cabin. Frowning, she reclaims her space on the couch. "Where did Rae go?"

"She just remembered she had something to do."

Shaking her head, Shepard smiles. "Flighty as always. So did you two behave?"

"We were the picture of obedience."

"Now I definitely know I shouldn't have left. What did you guys talk about?"

Garrus lets his shoulders relax, swirling the ice around in his glass. "Actually, she did most of the talking. I just listened."

"Uh oh," Shepard says, "Should I be worried?"

Her jaw is relaxed, but her eyes stay sharp, and the whole effect is very intense. He blinks, drinking in the details. "Nah."


	14. Found in Translation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, but I'm back with a slightly longer installment to make up for my absence! Finals were kicking my ass (as usual), and Nyreen/Aria (Omega DLC spoilers) bit me in the feels so I got distracted for a while there. But I churned this whole thing out a couple weeks ago just for you guys so I hope you enjoy :D Warning, this is CUSTOM Shep, and custom in a BIG WAY so if that's not your cuppa, don't read this chapter. Translations are available on google, or you can PM me for a more precise interpretation (you'll understand after you read it.)
> 
> Scene: Somewhere in ME3. Garrus and Shepard decide to perform a little experiment.

“I’ve got a question.”

Garrus looks up from his datapad. Shepard’s standing in front of her dresser, peeling herself out of her BDUs for a shower. “Ask away.”

“What do turians sound like without a translator?” She steps out of the uniform and carefully folds it into a perfect rectangle before storing it in a drawer. “Random question, but I’m curious.”

He sets the datapad down, head cocked to one side as he watches her pull out a towel. “Like wild animals,” Garrus says dryly, “Lots of growling and posturing and roaring.”

That wins a throaty chuckle. “No wonder you guys need translators then.”

“I’m not sure how to answer that though. We sound exactly like well, turians.” He stands up then, and walks over to where she is. “I could ask the same thing about humans.”

“Fair enough,” Shepard replies, taking out the pins in her meticulous bun. “It depends on which language the human in question speaks. Different tones, different stresses, different accents.”

“Apply that to turians, and there’s your answer. We have colony-specific languages, dialects of those, Palaven-specific languages, and their dialects. There’s even a _Cipritine-_ specific dialect. It can get pretty crazy.”

“Sounds like Earth,” she says and turns around to face him in her underwear. With the pins out, her hair sits heavily on her shoulders, its curls matted and coiled from being confined all day. He brushes a stray lock from her forehead. “What language do you speak?”

“The Cipritine-dialect, since I’m from there. That’s what most turians speak. You?”

“English and Mandarin, two of the main _lingua francas_ on Earth. Bahasa-Indonesian too, that’s less well-known.” Suddenly arching an eyebrow, she tugs at the hem of his tunic. “Have you washed yet?”

His mandibles flex in amusement as he undoes the catches on his clothes. “No, but I get the message.”

Garrus wants to laugh at the spark that slowly appears in her eyes. “Turn your translator off,” Shepard announces.

“What—so you can have another reason to poke fun at me?”

“Don’t worry, I’m doing it too.” Her lips curve into a smile. “Think of it as a ‘cross-species experiment.’”

He shakes his head. “As long as you stop referencing that, I’m game.”

She unhooks her bra and moves for the bathroom. “We’ll turn them back on after we’re done showering.”

“I could say something terrible and offensive, and you’d never be the wiser.”

Shepard smirks and throws her standard-issue underwear at him. “I can ask EDI to translate the recording for me later.”

Garrus catches it mid-air, rubbing the fabric between his talons before laying it on the couch. “Who’s the terrible one now?”

Laughing, she crosses the threshold, and he sees her touch a spot right behind her ear. No turning back then. Muttering a quick prayer to himself, he turns his off as well and finishes undressing. The room is already filled with steam when he enters, with Shepard standing directly under the showerhead. She hears him and turns, raising both eyebrows. Garrus nods, taking her extended hand.

Within seconds, they’re both completely soaked, and he lets out a satisfied rumble at the hot water on his skin. They don’t get to do this often, in the middle of the biggest war they’ve ever faced, against the biggest enemy they’ve ever known. Between the fights and the summits and the nightmares he knows they both have at night, he’ll take what little breaks he can find. Shepard looks to be in the same mindset, stretching the cricks in her neck as she reaches for the shampoo.

Garrus stops her with a hand on hers. Shaking his head, he takes the bottle, squirts a small bit on his hand, and tilts his head. Shepard smirks and leans towards him, accepting the gesture. He rubs the liquid into a lather and carefully threads his talons through her hair, working tiny circles into her scalp, just like how she does it if his memory serves correctly. Relief and triumph well up inside him when she sighs, shoulders slumping in contentment.

“ _Good_?” he asks. Her body freezes under his hands, but then immediately relaxes. Shepard’s eyes searches his, wide-eyed and curious. He pauses his ministrations, waits a second, then starts again. “ _Good?_ ” he repeats.

It clicks on her face. She smiles with bubbles and his hands in her hair. “不 要 停.”She mimes his earlier motions, making a pleased noise (that one, he recognizes.) Garrus keeps going. “很 舒 服 _,_ ” she murmurs, closing her eyes.

The words she says, whatever they are, rise and fall with a discernible rhythm. Shepard sounds like she’s singing. Her voice, normally deep and husky when filtered through his translator, actually comes out higher in her natural register, as if there’s always a song on the tip of her tongue. Not for the first time, Garrus wonders what he sounds like to her. Once her hair has been sufficiently shampooed, he gently nudges her under the water. He works patiently, washing over every dark lock as she watches him. It occurs to him then that he can say anything he wants.

“ _I like your hair_ ,” Garrus says abruptly. “ _You look…different with it down. A good different._ ” He swallows down a nervous laugh as Shepard hums an encouraging noise, drawing her hands around his waist. _“Figures I’d fumble this even without the threat of a translator. It’s hard sometimes, knowing what to say to you._ ”

She shrugs, smiling like she understands, and pulls him closer. “ _Enam bulan adalah waktu yang lama._ Cupping his face, she says, “不 管 你 在 哪 裡. 我 對 你 **念 念 不** **忘.”**

He can tell then that she’s switching back and forth between the languages she’d mentioned. There’s the lyrical voice from before, and something new—harsher, with a different beat, but still in that same soft-spoken tone he’ll always associate with Shepard. From the expression on her face, whatever’s being said is more honest than usual. Garrus tucks her head under his chin, crooning low in his throat. “ _I’m glad I met you. When this war is over…we should talk. Long-term plans._ ”

“跟你在一起的時候好開心,” Shepard continues, muffled by the water and his cowl.

“ _I wonder how you feel about kids.”_

“ _Aku harap kamu tahu bahwa—“_

_“Or just about making a life together—“_

_“Kamu buah hati saya—“_

_“Because I want that, with you. More than anything.”_

“疼你 _,”_ she replies, maybe in agreement, maybe in something else entirely, but it doesn’t matter. They stay like that under the showerhead for a little while longer, pretending that they’re somewhere warm and sunny, until her skin wrinkles, and they release twin sighs as Shepard turns off the water while Garrus grabs the towel from its hook.  

They dry each other in silence, her hair fluffing up to his secret delight. After slipping into a tank top, Shepard taps the translator back on, and Garrus follows suit. “So,” she begins slowly, “That was interesting.”

“Very,” he agrees. “How did I uh, sound to you?”

She takes a second to bite her lip before answering, “Rumbly. But strangely soothing. What about me?”

“Like you were singing.”

“Hah—was it as good as my dancing?”

“Ah, no comment.” He pulls a clean tunic over his head. “Aren’t you going to ask what I said?"

“Are _you_?”

He truly considers it for a moment. “Nah,” Garrus says finally. “Besides, it’s nothing you don’t know already.”

Shepard nods wordlessly and heads for her console, brushing fingers with him as she walks past. Impulsively, he catches her wrist. “I won’t die from embarrassment if you decide to listen to the recording later.”

She smiles. “We’ll listen together.”


	15. Appearances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scene: ME3, Shepard considers Garrus' appearance on two separate occasions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so real life has been busy, but I scrounged up some drabbles I'd written from a while back-nowhere near the length I'd like to post here for you guys, but an update is an update, amirite? Please to be enjoying, guys /bows out

It's all that armor, Shepard thinks as she watches Garrus cross the corridor from the main battery to the mess hall. The reinforced plating, the cylindrical look of the cowl, the sheer bulk of it—even the silver weaving in and out of the blue adds to the aura surrounding the failed C-Sec cop-cum Omega vigilante-cum Reaper Advisor. Her crew gives deep nods to the turian as he passes them, his two-toed boots clanking against the floor. She blames not a one for their deference. He certainly isn't a sight for sore eyes despite the scarring.

The height just makes the whole effect worse. As bad a turian as Garrus professes to be, that does nothing to stunt his exemplary height and how he towers over every person on the Normandy, turning his head this way and that, the sweep of his fringe giving him that aggressive silhouette others have already commented on in hushed whispers. Shepard gets it, her turian sharpshooter's an imposing specimen, an apex predator, an unstoppable killing machine.

What the others don't see, though, is Garrus in her cabin, stripping off his armor piece by piece until the gauntlets and the leg guards and the chestplate all lie crumpled in a messy heap next to the couch as he sinks down onto the bed without a single stitch of clothing on him, letting the ceiling lights cast shadows between the grooves of his plates that—contrary to popular belief—aren't rough at all, but smooth and firm, like what skin is supposed to feel like, fever-hot against her hands and just as vulnerable to touch as that of any human. They don't see him long-limbed and lean, wire-thin and oddly fragile compared to her solid frame.

None of them sees what he hides from the rest.

\-----

He jokes enough about his scars that it's a running gag, and "taking a rocket to the face" has become his go-to story for the newcomers. Even Wrex gives a nod of approval. They're a cocksure dare, a hard-won badge, a manifestation of losses and victories openly worn on the right side of his face. They also drive the ladies wild; or rather, they would if he weren't already a one-human turian. Naturally, he never passes up an opportunity to tell her that, canting his head at an angle for the ship lights to accentuate the ribbed flesh creeping up his neck, but neither does he realize the way his hand gingerly fingers them every so often, especially when he thinks no one is looking.

He treats his healed injuries as a joke or a lucky deformity because that's how he copes, but they're none of those things, not at all. Intricate striations break up his colony markings, splitting his face in two to illustrate that insecure ex-cop he used to be and the confident leader he's grown into. The top layer of skin's been taken off along with the bandages to reveal the pink-and-gray discoloration crisscrossing over his delicately edged mandible, the end of it now frayed but no less whole. Scarring licks the side of his mouth like tiny flames, tiny claws, tiny etchings that silently lay out his checkered history—a work of art on his face, and he doesn't even know it.

Shepard keeps quiet though and listens to him tell his tales and poke fun at his looks in front of the crew, but later in her cabin, she'll kiss every inch of that marred, flawless skin as a reflection of what's been broken inside of her, but robbed of the scars to prove it.


	16. Three's company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scene: ME3. Eyes wander when there's another turian on board the Normandy.

“You trust him, right?”

Garrus looks up from his algorithms on the board. Shepard’s staring at the door without giving any more hints to whom she’s referring, but he doesn’t need them. “Wasn’t aware I had a choice, but for what it’s worth, yeah.”

With a nod, she uncrosses her arms. “Good. He seemed earnest when we spoke in the War Room, but you’ve fought alongside him.”

“Not for that long, but he’s popular with the troops. Comes with the name and reputation.”

Shepard moves next to him, hands linked behind her back. “Tell me more.”

With a curious tilt of his head, Garrus continues. “Tough, but fair. Plays hard and fast with the rules. Has a sense of humor,” he adds with a flick of his mandible, “usually when you’re not looking for it.”

“Is that how he is with everyone?”

“Wouldn’t know. I don’t watch him interact with everyone.” He bumps her hip. “Do you?”

She arches a single brow. “I watch everyone on my ship.”

“A blatant abuse of privilege.”

“A commander’s prerogative.”

“Let me guess: you plan on asking the Primarch personal questions to win him over. It’s what you did the last time we were on a suicide mission.” He pauses to relish the look on her face. “Call it the Shepard Method.”

After opening and closing her mouth for a brief period, Shepard chuckles low in her throat and slides a hand around his waist. Her fingers press right above the jut of his hipbones in that way he likes. “Jealous, Vakarian?”

“Because you talked to another turian in public for five minutes and stared at his ass back on Menae? Nah,” he says dryly, “can’t imagine why I would be.”

“Oh you caught that,” Shepard replies, grinning, and draws closer, “maybe you’re the one who enjoys watching too much.”

He nuzzles the side of her neck. “Depends on the targets.”

She huffs quietly. “There’s someone else?”

“I’ll admit, he’s not a bad-looking guy. No scars, but there’s something about his voice…”

“Victus,” Shepard names with a laugh. 

“Am I wrong?” Garrus asks and for a moment, does wonder if he’s gone and followed another teasing line of inquiry that doesn’t exist. 

Two brown hands cup his face as they brush over his plates. She shakes her head, the corners of her mouth twitching. “Seems like we both have wandering eyes.”

“Good thing we’re sneaky about it.”

“And if we weren’t?”

It’s his turn to go silent, his mandibles flexing for several seconds. “Well, what’s another interspecies, galactic incident? We’ll add it to what’s happening here.”

She pats his cheek. “That’s why I keep you around. You’re always ready to go with whatever crazy idea is in my mind at the time.”

“Give me a picture,” he says, grabbing her hand. “Tell me what’s going on in there right now.”

Her heavy-lidded eyes drop to half-mast. “I’m thinking about Victus. He has a beautiful pair of mandibles—very full.”

Garrus hums. “Go on.”


End file.
